


Keep Me in Your Chest

by triggerswaggiehavoc



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Small Town, Haircuts, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Slow Romance, Smoking, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerswaggiehavoc/pseuds/triggerswaggiehavoc
Summary: Jeonghan leads a very comfortable life. It's not often he gets the feeling something is about to burn.





	Keep Me in Your Chest

The dreams you have in your youth don’t always turn out to be what you expected even when you do achieve them. Jeonghan knows firsthand.

When he was in high school, he decided he wanted to be a hairdresser, and when he entered cosmetology school, he had the dream of someday opening his own salon. It was a lofty ambition, but he wanted it anyway. Something about aiming at the moon but hitting the stars instead. He mostly figured the chances he would ever someday actually have his own hair salon were so low he could strive for it forever.

As things happened, that little dream was easier to achieve than he thought. Maybe he was just working toward it too earnestly. Looking back now, he wishes in tiny parts of him he hadn’t been so intent on finding the most affordable building to lease, on making it all so possible. Not two years after finishing his training at cosmetology school, he found a place, in a tiny little town with a population just barely scraping at four digits, and moved there right away to become the only barber shop in a forty mile radius. In his younger fantasy, his shop had been a stylish boutique, maybe visited by a celebrity every once in a while, and though the place he wound up with isn’t that at all, he technically did reach his dream. He may have hit the moon, but it often feels more like the blanket of space stretching between stars.

He’s lived here for six years, and he knows everyone. It’s impossible not to; they all walk through his door at some point. Sometimes, he thinks about moving, packing everything up and ghosting in the middle of the night, back to the city where everything feels so much quicker and more alive, but he knows he won’t do it. He already owns this building, and there’s no one to buy it off him. Only four people have moved here since he has, the most recent two years ago.

He won’t act like he isn’t bored to death of it. All the gossipy chatter, the silent nights, the faces that melt into one collective identity. But he doesn’t have the guts to leave anymore, doesn’t have that young spirit of willpower that made him move out here in the first place. With every year that passes, it’s more comfortable to think that he knows exactly what the next will bring, and even if this little town is shackles, they’re not quite tight enough to keep him from sleeping at night. Besides, if he doesn’t stick around to cut their hair, who will?

A late summer breeze wafts through the opened windows and rings the bell by the door. By this time of year, everyone’s already had their hair cut to keep the heat off, and Jeonghan is left without much to do. This year, he’s even cut his own hair, shorter than he’s had it since he was in school, and he’s still getting used to the feel of air tickling the back of his neck.

While the sun crawls across the sky and the shop’s hours creep toward close, Jeonghan does nothing but sit in his chair at the desk and turn in lazy circles. Above him, the ceiling fans rotate with just as much energy, and the scissors lined up on his counter reflect sunlight in jagged white stripes along the back wall. He tries to read one of the books he’s had shoved in the drawer for months, but it’s hopeless. His eyes won’t focus on the page. With a grainy sigh, he looks up at the ceiling and counts the seconds until the day is over.

It’s not until the light coming through the windows has faded to deep orange that he sees any disturbance. The bell at the door chimes, and it rouses him from the hazy evening stupor swallowing him up to his shoulders. Through the door comes a silhouette, backlit by the sun and impossible to look at, tall and slim and daunting. Once the door closes, it turns out to be a regular man, albeit a little taller and skinnier than most Jeonghan knows. And Jeonghan doesn’t know him.

“Evening,” he says. “Still pretty warm out there?”

“For sure,” the guy tells him with a tiny smile. It’s no wonder—he’s got a coat on. The ridge of the collar sits just below the longest strands of hair, ends dead and splitting, and Jeonghan has the feeling he doesn’t usually keep it this long. His eyes crinkle.

“Looking for a trim?” The man’s smile grows. It’s wide and soft, a gentle curve, a dream of a sunrise long gone by. Something about it is familiar in an abstract way, like the taste of lemonade after not drinking it for a while.

“I am,” he says. His voice rolls a little deeper than Jeonghan is used to, blends in well with the swish of the fan. “This the place for it?”

“Only one in town,” Jeonghan drawls with a creeping smile. He hops up from his seat at the desk and walks to one of the empty salon chairs, drums his fingers on its back until his guest sits down. The man takes his glasses off while Jeonghan ties the drape around his neck. “Alright. What are you looking to have me do?”

“Anything,” the guy tells him, closing his eyes. “I just want it cut.”

“Anything?” Jeonghan thumbs at the splitting hairs and chews at his lip.

“Whatever you think will look good,” his guest amends. “It’s too long right now.”

Jeonghan hums while he grabs a spray bottle. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll make you look good.”

Wind still dances in from time to time and rings the entry bell, and it’s the only sound for a long while. Jeonghan has always thought about playing music in the shop, but he doesn’t know what the people around here want to listen to, and he doesn’t think he has anything in his library he won’t get tired of, so he keeps it quiet. It’s nice sometimes, when all he can hear is the breeze and the chirping of the birds outside. Other times, it’s stifling. He glides the razor up the side of the man’s head and watches the hair fall off and sprinkle the floor.

“So,” he begins, “what’s your name?” He feels the guy’s chuckle through his hands.

“Who’s asking?”

“You know, I’m holding a blade right against your head,” Jeonghan reminds him. “You might want to be a little more cooperative.” He watches the smile in the mirror broaden.

“It’s Wonwoo.”

“Wonwoo,” Jeonghan murmurs, testing out the feel of it. It’s a little heavy on his tongue, falls through the air like pebbles. “You’re not from around here, are you, Wonwoo?”

“What gives me away?” he asks, cracking his eyes open. He squints at his reflection, but judging by the furrow of his brow, he can’t tell what Jeonghan’s doing for him.

“A few things.” Jeonghan taps the back of Wonwoo’s head until he tilts his chin down, then begins buzzing from the back of the neck, brushing shed hair away as he goes. “For one, you walked in with a coat on. And I don’t recognize you.”

“Plenty of people wear coats.”

“Not in this weather.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people you don’t recognize, too.”

“That only confirms it,” Jeonghan sighs, moving to get behind Wonwoo’s other ear. “I’ve been cutting the whole town’s hair for years. There’s not one person I don’t know.” He tilts Wonwoo’s chin up to face the mirror, and stubble scratches his fingertips. He could probably use a shave, too. “But I don’t know you. And if you haven’t had your hair cut in that long, you should have a little more of it.” Wonwoo exhales and closes his eyes again.

“Guess I’m all found out.”

“Guess so.” Jeonghan starts snipping at the longer hair on top, pulling it through his fingers in waves and trimming off the ends. It’s in the therapy of this that he finds most comfort. “Are you moving in here, then?”

“So many questions.”

“Is it a sin to know my patrons?” More hair comes off with the next clip than intended, and he puffs out a small breath. Looks like he’ll be going just a little shorter. Good thing Wonwoo can’t tell anyway. “If you’re going to be living here, you’ll have to come by for another cut sometime.”

“Well, I guess you could say I’m sticking around, then.” Wonwoo’s eyes find Jeonghan’s in the mirror somehow, and even though he knows Wonwoo can’t actually see him, he feels that stare like cement in his spine. “I’m moving into a little house by a creek.”

“I know the one.” It’s a small place, and it’s been vacant for a while now. The plants have begun crawling up the outer walls to reclaim it as part of the earth. “Might need a little yard work.”

“I’ll take care of that.” Jeonghan expects him to say something else, but he doesn’t, only closes his eyes again and breathes out. The fan hums softly above them.

“And today’s your first day in town?”

Wonwoo sighs like he’s tired of talking. “Yeah.”

“Welcome, then.” The sound of the Velcro tearing apart as he removes the cape echoes forever. All the light bleeding in from outside is beginning to tint purple. “Alright, you’re all set to go.”

“You’re done?” He puts his glasses on and appraises himself in the mirror, hands running over the shortest spots. A low whistle rolls off his lips. “Damn, I do look pretty good.”

“You’re welcome.”

Wonwoo stands and starts rifling through his pockets. Surely that coat is sticking to him all over—Jeonghan knows he doesn’t keep it that cool in here—but he makes no move to take it off. Instead, he pulls a wallet out of one of the pockets and flips it open. “How much do I owe you?” he asks.

When he says that, something about him seems so different. His daunting figure becomes nothing but gawky, eyes less piercing behind the glasses he wears. The way the light falls off his shoulders, he looks like a lost child, and Jeonghan’s heart kicks at him. What was he thinking, giving him such a good haircut?

“It’s on the house,” Jeonghan tells him, wiping off a scissor blade. “A little welcome gift from me.”

“Ah, really?” He folds his wallet up, shoves it back in his pocket, dons a wide grin. The lost child illusion melts straight off him just as cleanly as it was plastered on. “Thanks, then, uh…”

“Jeonghan.”

“Jeonghan,” Wonwoo echoes. Jeonghan likes the timber of his voice and the way he says it, gravelly and even. His eyes glint as he turns to leave, footsteps slow and heavy on the tile. “Guess I’ll see you next time I need a trim.”

Jeonghan laughs behind him. “You’ll be seeing me sooner than that,” he promises. Wonwoo stops for only a moment to turn back and look at him, then raises his hand in a halfhearted parting wave as he opens the door and steps into the warm blue night waiting outside. With a final glance at the clock, Jeonghan heads to the front door and closes up for the evening.

 

It’s hard to go too long without seeing any one person unless you’re actively avoiding them, and even then, it’s not so simple a task. Jeonghan doesn’t make enough noise to have any enemies, so on evenings when he feels like it, he’ll head to the bar to spend time with whomever else decides to find their way in. Though the daytime weather is still clinging to summer, the nights have started to dip a bit cooler, so he wraps himself in a thin jacket before starting the stroll over under sparse streetlights and the white glow of a waxing moon.

Some nights, the little bar is packed to the brim with patrons, every table filled to capacity, but it’s not nearly so lively when Jeonghan gets there. Only two of the tables are seated, and the bar stands completely empty, lone bartender polishing it while he waits for some real work to do. Jeonghan’s got a soft heart. He strolls up to the bar, shrugs his jacket off, and cops the stool right in the middle.

“Evening, Minghao,” he croons, planting his elbows on the bar top. “Busy night?”

Minghao throws his rag down and walks to stand across from Jeonghan, arms resting on the bar between them. “I’m losing my mind,” he says, closing his eyes and blowing a curl of hair off his forehead. Jeonghan’s lips smile of their own volition; if he’s being honest, Minghao is the only real reason he likes coming here. “Please tell me you’re drinking tonight.”

“Oh, sure,” he says, pretending to scan the small drink menu propped up to his right. “I always come to drink.”

“Thank god.” Minghao smiles, bright with relief under the low lighting. “What can I make for you?”

“I’ll have whatever you feel like making,” Jeonghan tells him. “You look a little antsy.”

“You sure?” Minghao asks, but he’s already setting down a polished glass and reaching for his liquors.

“Within reason,” Jeonghan chides. “I still need my liver, and I don’t need to take out a loan to pay this bill.” Minghao laughs but keeps making the same drink he’s already started. As Jeonghan watches his hands busy themselves, quick but lazy, he wonders if he’s ever had this drink before.

A cool wave of air floods in from outside when the entrance door opens, but Jeonghan ignores the goosebumps rising on his arms in favor of watching Minghao continue to make his drink. Over the quiet music coming through the bar’s speakers, he starts to hear something like footsteps, a little too pitchless and uneven to be the beat. By the time it registers, the seat beside him is taking up an occupant. “Howdy,” a familiar voice rumbles.

“Well,” Jeonghan hums, turning to inspect his new neighbor, “look who it is.”

It’s been three days since Wonwoo came in to have his hair trimmed, and he’s shaved since then, smooth around a jaw that’s very strong now that Jeonghan is having another look. His haircut suits him so well Jeonghan wonders if he really could have done it himself, and the dim bar lights suit him even better. His smile is worlds different now from days ago, different in the same unquantifiable ways pears are different from peaches. He looks comfortable.

“You were right, I guess,” he begins, “that I’d see you sooner than I thought.” Glow from above catches on his lenses, and Jeonghan almost misses Minghao sliding his drink over. “But I guess it happens when there’s only one bar in town.”

“There’s only one of anything around here,” Jeonghan says, taking a sip. Fruity. Minghao knows by now what he’ll ask for a second glass of. “And zero of a lot of things.”

“Can I get anything for you to drink?” Minghao butts in. His hands are jittery, still itching to make something else, and Jeonghan thinks he should have taken up a career a little steadier in its busywork. Wonwoo lifts the drink menu and gives it a very real survey, squinting to see in the dimness.

“What’s he having?” he asks eventually, nodding at Jeonghan’s drink. Minghao raises his eyebrows.

“Manager’s special.” That’s his blanket term for every drink he makes up on the spot and doesn’t feel like calling anything real. Almost everything Jeonghan drinks is a manager’s special. “You want it?”

“What’s it taste like?” Wonwoo asks, to Jeonghan this time. Jeonghan isn’t good at describing flavors beyond whether he likes it or doesn’t, so he slides the glass across the countertop and into Wonwoo’s arm.

“Try it.” Minghao’s eyebrows are already raised, but he sends them higher.

“Do you two know each other?” he asks, turning his attention to Wonwoo. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I just moved here.”

“He came and had me cut his hair,” Jeonghan explains.

“Actually, I had him cut all my hairs,” Wonwoo corrects. Minghao coughs. It catches Jeonghan off guard by just enough to make him laugh once, but not by enough for him to mean it.

“And I guess he’ll be cutting them himself from now on.” He watches Wonwoo’s nose scrunch with laughter while he takes a sip of the drink, then scrunch in a sort of pucker. The drink is back in front of Jeonghan without delay. “Don’t like it?”

“Too sour,” Wonwoo says with a grimace, looking at Minghao. “Is there anything that’s not as sour?” Minghao grins at him.

“I can work on something for you.”

Before too long, Minghao’s cranked something out, mellower in tone than Jeonghan’s drink and more subdued in appearance. A mint leaf rests delicate at the rim, and Jeonghan recalls the time Minghao told him he only uses garnishes to convince customers who don’t seem sold yet. A true master of his craft, Jeonghan thinks. Wonwoo hazards a ginger sip, and his eyes shine as he lowers the glass.

“That’s good,” he says, laced with awe. “What is it?” Minghao smiles.

“Manager’s special,” he says, and then one of the groups at a table begins calling him over, so he leaves. Wonwoo frowns at his glass but takes another sip anyway.

“Sure are a lot of manager’s specials around here,” he grumbles. Jeonghan laughs and throws a glance over his shoulder, to where Minghao is talking with the table who summoned him.

“We have a very special manager.” When he turns back, Wonwoo’s eyebrows are raised at him, glass frozen halfway to his lips. “Don’t give me that look,” he says, swatting Wonwoo’s shoulder and taking a sip of his own. “How have your first few days been? Taken a good look around town yet?” For a second longer, Wonwoo seems like his eyes will slice right through all Jeonghan’s bones, and it’s the most nervous he’s felt since he moved here. Then he blinks and turns to look at the shelves behind the bar, and Jeonghan’s chest loosens back up.

“Nope,” he sighs, tapping his fingernails on the counter. “All I’ve done is unpack. Tonight’s the first time I’ve left the house.”

Jeonghan hums. “No wonder I haven’t heard anything about you yet.” Wonwoo blinks at him.

“Pardon?”

“Nobody’s seen you,” Jeonghan explains. “They don’t even know you’re here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know,” Jeonghan says, turning his hand in circles through the air, “just murmurings.” He shakes his glass to move the ice. “Things like, ‘Did you hear about the new guy that moved into the old house by the creek?’ Now that you’ve come out of hiding, I guess people will be talking about it tomorrow.” Wonwoo snorts.

“Is that really something to talk about?”

“So naïve,” Jeonghan says, wistful. “Everything here is something to talk about. It’s not like we have anything better to do.”

“Something about that is pathetic,” Wonwoo mutters.

“You’ll get used to it.”

For a moment, the bar is at the same time unbearably loud and hauntingly quiet. Wonwoo finishes his drink without a word, and Jeonghan expects him to leave, but he stays, looming and somber on the adjacent stool while Jeonghan tips back the rest of his own glass and waits for Minghao to come back so he can ask for another. Suddenly, it seems so lively everywhere but at the bar itself. Wonwoo clears his throat.

“So,” he begins, “do you come here often?” Jeonghan chuckles; he’s really forgotten how different it is to live in the city.

“I go everywhere often,” he says. “Not that many places to go.”

“I guess you’re right.” Small ice cubes continue to melt at the bottom of Wonwoo’s glass, and Jeonghan notices his knuckles paling around it. Now that he’s looking, his shoulders are tense as well, entire body rigid in its conviction to be still. It tugs at Jeonghan’s heart the same way as a dog waiting for an owner who’s not coming home.

“Say, what brings you out here, anyway?” Jeonghan asks.

“Sorry?”

“I mean, this place doesn’t really seem like your pace, you know?” He gestures at Wonwoo generally, starts to wish Minghao would come back already. He’s unusually chatty tonight. “I don’t really see why you’d want to move here.” Wonwoo barks one laugh and looks at his drained glass.

“Do I seem like I really wanted to come here?”

“No,” Jeonghan tells him, “which is why I’m trying to figure out why you did.” Wonwoo throws a glance at him sideways, and it slips right through Jeonghan’s grasp.

“I’ll need more than one drink in me before I feel like talking about that.”

“Then why not have another?”

“Sorry about that,” Minghao butts in, shuffling back over to where he had been before. Jeonghan feels like he was away for years. “Got roped into a little gambling debate.” He eyes the two emptied glasses on the counter, and his expression surges with energy. “Hey, alright. Either of you looking for a second?” Jeonghan chews at his bottom lip before answering.

“Yeah, I’ll have another,” he decides. Then he turns to look at Wonwoo. Ball in court. His answer seems so much more important than it is.

“I’ll have another, too,” he says, grinning. “And put me on Jeonghan’s tab.” Minghao raises his eyebrows and turns to Jeonghan with a question of a smile.

“Yeah,” he sighs, resting his chin in his palm. “Put him on my tab.”

 

When Jeonghan visits the tiny grocery store in the town’s center the a couple days later, its few aisles are abuzz with innocent little rumors. _Did you see we have someone new in town? He was at the bar last night; apparently he’s super handsome. It looks like he knows the barber. Maybe they were friends in the city. Do you think he would introduce us?_

Jeonghan bites back laughter while he browses the shelves. What an endearing naivety to think all city people are from the same city, to think there’s such a great chance they would know each other. Now that he thinks about it, Jeonghan hasn’t got a clue where Wonwoo’s from, either. His only edge over the rest of the townsfolk is that he knows his name. With this in mind, he grabs a bottle of wine that wasn’t on his shopping list before he pays for everything in his basket.

The house by the creek is even smaller than he remembers, and the vine growth on the brick siding is truly advanced, leafy stretches of ivy curling around the windows and slipping thin green fingers around the gutters. Only the front steps and the door seem like they’ve been cleared, and maybe that’s all Wonwoo has felt like clearing. With the amount of work it’ll be to get rid of it all, Jeonghan can’t blame him.

He knocks on the door, and the emptiness of the sound shocks him, along with the splinters it almost puts in his knuckles. Light is coming through the window, which means Wonwoo is either home or wasteful, and he wonders how long it’ll take for him to answer the door if he decides to answer it at all. Jeonghan is surprised to see the door open almost immediately after he knocks to reveal a more disheveled version of Wonwoo, hair uncombed and forehead slightly shiny with sweat.

“Evening,” Jeonghan says.

“You again,” Wonwoo says back. “Why do I feel like you’re the only person in town?” He glances at the bag hanging from Jeonghan’s wrist. “What’s that?”

“A welcome gift,” Jeonghan fudges. “Are you busy?”

“A little,” Wonwoo tells him, narrowing his eyes. The corners of his lips begin to curl. “And I thought my haircut was a welcome gift.”

“A housewarming gift, then.”

For a long minute, Wonwoo leans against the doorframe and just watches. Jeonghan isn’t sure what exactly he’s watching. In the trees on the other side of the water, cicadas are singing, loud enough to burst ear drums and soft enough to fall beneath the shallow trickle of the creek. Pearls of condensation gather on the cool bottle of wine in Jeonghan’s bag. Wonwoo heaves himself from the doorframe.

“Come on in.”

The inside of the house is more organized than its outside, but not by much. Instead of overgrowth, half-unpacked boxes take up the majority of the space, and most of them don’t seem to hold anything but books. Hard back, paperback, thick, thin, pristine, battered. Jeonghan thinks Wonwoo could have built himself an entire new house out of just books if he wanted to. As Wonwoo leads him through the little entryway, he nudges them cautiously aside with his feet. A large fan blowing from the corner of the living room sends some of the lighter volumes open and sets their pages flapping like the wings of desperate birds.

Wonwoo takes him to the kitchen, which has most of its boxes completely emptied but still sitting on the floors like molted snakeskin. He sits down at the table and watches Jeonghan with careful eyes as he takes the opposite seat. The bottoms of his lenses are foggy when he glances up from them. He looks expectant.

“I brought you some wine,” Jeonghan tells him, peeling the bag off the bottle’s dewy sides. Wonwoo scrunches his nose.

“I don’t like wine.”

“You should have told me.”

“You should have told me you planned on buying it.”

“I didn’t plan on it ‘til I was at the store.” Jeonghan pushes it forward. “Just drink it anyway. It’s free.”

“Fine,” Wonwoo sighs. “Just because you brought it.” He plucks it from the tabletop and studies the label, turning the bottle over in his hands and wiping off the moisture on his pants. Jeonghan thinks he looks a little too tired for the Cheshire grin he puts on. “You’re just trying to make me drink so I’ll tell you about myself, aren’t you?” Jeonghan smiles a thin smile. In a way, he feels caught; in other ways, he feels like the walls of his cage have fallen.

“Maybe.” Wonwoo laughs. It’s a nice sound, like the foghorn of a distant ship as it makes its way into port.

“Well, you’re out of luck,” he says. “I won’t drink a drop of this until I’ve finished the rest of my unpacking.” He glances over his shoulder and into his bedroom, just as rich in boxes as the others. “And I have a lot left.”

“Let me help you with it.”

“Doesn’t it hurt to be so underhanded?”

“Hey, now,” Jeonghan huffs, flicking his wrist through the air. Imaginary flies disperse around his fingers. “I’m just helping a new neighbor.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Jeonghan opens his mouth to say something back, but his tongue is dry. For a minute, all he does is stare at Wonwoo, jaw hanging open to catch those imaginary flies he just waved away. Wonwoo doesn’t look away from him all the while, eyes dark and intense and burning as the mist on his lenses slowly clears, and Jeonghan thinks he is sinking into quicksand. His brain tells him to kick his legs and pull free, but his body doesn’t move.

Silently, Wonwoo stands and starts shuffling back toward his bedroom. Jeonghan watches him take a few steps before he pauses and turns around to throw him a look. “Come on,” Wonwoo says. “If you’re gonna help, come help.” So Jeonghan stands.

Just as it seemed, most of what he has to unpack is books, and he’s weirdly particular about the way they’re arranged. Every time Jeonghan places one on a shelf, Wonwoo instructs him to move it somewhere else. The ending arrangement looks organized, sure, but Jeonghan doesn’t see why he’s so finicky about all the details. Maybe it’s just because he doesn’t read much. Maybe he just wouldn’t get it.

After they’ve gotten them all unloaded, he sits on the hardwood floor in the small den and fans away the sweat he worked up. Beside him, Wonwoo transfers folded shirts from a box to one of the drawers he removed from his dresser, lips a thin line of concentration as he tries to fit them all in as tightly as possible. From this angle, it’s even more evident just how many books there are, climbing up the walls with the bookshelf as a ladder. They are their own kind of ivy.

“You sure have a lot,” Jeonghan muses with a whistle, eyes trailing up the spines. Most of the titles printed on them are just barely too small for his eyes to read from here.

“Huh?” Wonwoo glances up from his task, to Jeonghan, to the bookshelf, back down. “Yeah.” The clothes rustle like a calm breeze while he fits them in alongside each other. “I collect them.”

“Have you read them all?”

“Most of them.” A soft sigh as the next shirt doesn’t quite fit in. “I’m working my way through.” He points at the far side of the shelf, one of its lower levels. “I’m about there right now.” Jeonghan guesses that means he’s a good way through and hums while he tries to think of something else to ask.

“Do you only read?” he decides on. Wonwoo sets down the shirt in his hands and looks up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you write at all?” Jeonghan clarifies, and Wonwoo leans forward onto his palm, smile smug.

“I see what you’re doing,” he says.

“I’m just asking a question, Wonwoo.” Wonwoo hums at him. “People who read a lot usually write, don’t they?”

“Not necessarily.” Wonwoo leans back now, stretching his arms out behind him and looking up at the ceiling. “But I do, I guess. Sort of.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” He watches Wonwoo shove the drawer off his lap to stretch his legs out, laugh that rumble of a chuckle. His toes are so close to brushing against the bottom of the bookshelf, but they don’t quite reach.

“I don’t get why you’re so interested.”

“I’m just curious,” Jeonghan tells him. It doesn’t escape his notice the way Wonwoo won’t look into his eyes. “You would be, too. It’s been such a long time since there’s been anyone new to talk to.” Wonwoo does meet Jeonghan’s gaze now, and he raises his brows when he does. The smile on his lips turns a color that makes Jeonghan’s stomach ache. Again, he’s looking like a lost child.

“So I’m like a cool new toy, huh?”

“Not like that.” Jeonghan closes his eyes to get Wonwoo’s face out of his head, but it doesn’t work. “I just already know the rest of my neighbors, and I’d like to know my new neighbor.” He cracks one eye open to throw a sideways look at Wonwoo. “It wouldn’t kill you to show a little interest in your new neighbors, either.”

“Maybe,” Wonwoo hums. With a huff and a slap to the legs, he stands up. “Well, I think I’ve got the rest of the unpacking handled.” He gives Jeonghan a look that implies he should leave, and somehow, it stings.

“But the wine,” Jeonghan argues against an order Wonwoo hasn’t given him. All Wonwoo does is grin, a little smug, a lot something Jeonghan can’t figure out.

“We can drink it some other time.”

“That’s a promise then,” Jeonghan tells him. He knows he has to leave now, but he can’t quite bring himself. “You have to drink it.”

“I promise to drink it,” Wonwoo snickers. “Now get out of my house.”

 

Jeonghan doesn’t see Wonwoo for over a week. A week is a long time not to see someone when you’re two trains running the same three routes, so he comes to the conclusion on the sixth day that Wonwoo is trying not to meet him on purpose. It’s a new feeling, thinking that he’s become an eyesore, and it bugs him more than he wants to admit. Every time the bell on his shop door jingles or footsteps stomp into the bar behind him, he has a shred of the thought that it might be Wonwoo. It burns him how much he’s hoping sometime it will be.

Outside, it’s started getting cooler, enough to need a jacket before the sun’s set all the way. Jeonghan likes this weather, when it’s not so blistering but it hasn’t gotten frigid yet, and it’s putting him in a good mood, taking his mind off things. Business is slow, and as he spins in his chair and watches the light fading through the window, he thinks about whether he should go to the bar after he closes for the day. Minghao knows he likes days like today, and he’s sure to whip up a drink to get him in higher spirits. “You seem down,” he’s been saying. Jeonghan’s been insisting he isn’t because he’s not certain why he should be. Minghao won’t believe him.

The tinkling sound of his door jolts him to attention, and the sight when he looks toward the sound is a halfhearted sort of nostalgia, a song that reminds you of someone who never sang it to you. A silhouette backed by the evening light, only it’s not bright enough to blind Jeonghan the same way. Wonwoo sifts through the shop like a stretched shadow until he’s standing over Jeonghan at his desk, tall and impending.

“Look who we have here.” Jeonghan’s voice is threatening him with a catch in his throat, but he pretends not to notice. “After another trim?”

“No,” Wonwoo says. His voice is so distantly familiar. Jeonghan missed it. “I came to ask if you’re busy.”

Jeonghan takes a glance around at his empty seats. “You tell me.” Wonwoo’s nose scrunches when he grins.

“I mean later.” He knocks his fist on Jeonghan’s desk like it’s a door, just once. The sound echoes beyond the walls. “After you close.”

“I was thinking about heading to the bar.”

In front of him, Wonwoo shifts his weight, leans his head to the right. The light catches his glasses at just the right spot to flash his lenses white. Maybe it’s just this angle, but the curve of his lips seems like it’s keeping so many secrets.

“Why don’t you come to my place instead?” he asks. “We’ve got an entire bottle of wine to work through.”

“If you’re offering,” Jeonghan begins, “I guess I can’t say no.” His heart is alive, beating swift and intent at his ribs. There’s a honeyish warmth that drips from Wonwoo’s smile and the way his eyes crinkle, down the gentle slope of his shoulders and into the floor. Jeonghan feels it bleeding up through the soles of his shoes. He looks at his wall clock. “I’ll be closing up here pretty soon.”

“Mind if I stick around until you’re finished?” When Jeonghan meets his eyes, he feels worms are eating out his heart from the inside, or maybe that a rogue constricting vine is crushing it to pulp.

“Feel free,” he says, throwing his arm at his short row of chairs. “Just take a seat.”

No other customers come by before it’s time to close, which doesn’t surprise Jeonghan much. He doesn’t have a lot to do in the way of closing procedures, but it’s hard to do what little there is with Wonwoo watching him. His gaze is heavy and thick, and Jeonghan feels it stamped on him while he sweeps, polishes the mirrors, rearranges the products on the shelf. He’s drowning in molasses, and even when he tastes fresh air as he locks the front door, it doesn’t help.

Wonwoo’s house boasts a lot less foliage when he sees it tonight. Some vigilant ribbons of green still tug at the bricks lowest to the ground, desperate to suck the house into the land, but the outer walls have mostly shed their verdant coat to feel the coming fall breezes, reddish brown brick fully exposed to the growing night air. With the cicadas gone, the only noises while Wonwoo unlocks his front door are the rattle of keys and swish of the creek.

All the boxes are gone now, leaving nothing for Wonwoo to kick out of the way while he leads Jeonghan into the kitchen. He flicks lights on as he goes, bathing the dark rooms in soft yellow light one by one until they reach the kitchen table. Jeonghan takes a seat while Wonwoo turns off the lights in unused rooms and fetches the bottle of wine from one of his cabinets. It’s hard to fathom how different this place looks from just a week ago, how much more lived in it seems.

“Here.” Wonwoo slides Jeonghan a glass half filled with wine. It’s a standard type, the kind you might drink orange juice out of. Jeonghan figures Wonwoo must not have any wine glasses handy, and the thought tickles a smile out of him.

“Thanks.” He sips at it while Wonwoo pours his own. It’s been a while since he’s had wine, and the taste sticks in his cheeks. “So what’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be an occasion?”

“There doesn’t have to be,” Jeonghan allows, “but I suspect there is.” Wonwoo takes a long sip.

“I just feel like talking today,” he says. “So if you have questions you want to ask, now’s the time to ask them.”

“Sounds like a great deal for me, if there’s no catch.” The scent of the wine is starting to get in Jeonghan’s head, behind his eyes. “But I think there’s going to be one.” Wonwoo glitters.

“For every question I answer, you have to answer one,” Wonwoo tells him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Well, I love answering questions.” Jeonghan hums, lips against the rim of his glass. “Do I get to ask first, then?” Wonwoo nods and takes a drink. While Jeonghan swishes his glass around, he combs for his first question. “What did you do before you came here? For work, I mean.”

“I was a journalist.”

“What kind of journalism?”

“That’s two questions,” Wonwoo chides. “It’s my turn.” The way he stares Jeonghan down says he already knows what he’s going to ask, but he’s dragging out the wait too long. Jeonghan almost finishes his glass wondering what it’s going to be. “What’s between you and the bartender?”

“Straight for the neck, huh?” Admittedly, he was hoping for something easier, like why he cuts hair or why he chose to move here. Wonwoo’s eyes don’t waver. “Don’t you wanna start with something a little more softball?”

“Nope,” Wonwoo assures him, taking a bold sip from his glass. “Just answer it.”

“Well… nothing.” Jeonghan sighs and finishes drinking. “There’s nothing, anyway, so you wasted your question.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Oh, you do?” He laughs without meaning it. “Well, I’m not. He’s cute, and he’ll give me a free drink every now and then, but he’s got… someone. Who visits. So that’s all.” His smile is flat. Something in Wonwoo’s eyes is very alive. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Maybe,” Wonwoo hums. He notices his glass has gotten low and refills it, then does the same for Jeonghan’s without asking first whether he should. “Alright. Your turn.”

Unlike Wonwoo, Jeonghan prefers to ease himself in. He asks simpler questions: where Wonwoo’s from, whether he’s always liked to read, what kind of journalism he used to do. He’s never heard of the city Wonwoo used to live in, but when he says he used to do investigative journalism, it starts to ring a bell. Jeonghan asks what kind of stories he used to work on, but Wonwoo has filled and emptied his glass three times, and he just asks Jeonghan another question instead of answering.

“You have to answer me first,” Jeonghan demands. He reaches for his own glass to take another sip, but only a few drops trickle down his throat. He wonders how much is left in the bottle.

“Sorry, sorry,” Wonwoo says. He leans forward, chin in palm, so far it seems like he’ll fall over. His cheeks stain with rosy pink and his smile is warm. “What was the question?”

“It was… why did you quit and come here?” Jeonghan figures Wonwoo won’t notice he changed the question. Wonwoo wrinkles his nose and frowns.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“But you said you wanted to talk today.”

“Well, I don’t anymore.” He wavers in his spot like the mirages that bud on the sidewalk when summer is at its hottest. “Ask something else.”

“Fine.” Jeonghan leans in on his own palm now, until his nose is no more than two inches from Wonwoo’s. The table is smaller than he realized. “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No,” Wonwoo huffs, but Jeonghan narrows his eyes and dons a thin smile.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Maybe,” Wonwoo admits with a sigh. “I don’t know. I had a lot to do.” His blinks are slow. “I cleared up all the vines. You saw.”

“That’s just an excuse, though, isn’t it?”

Wonwoo sucks in a breath and holds onto it for a while. “I wondered if you would come see me anyway,” he says at last, “if I hid out at home.” He flattens his mouth into a line and looks at Jeonghan like he’s disappointed. “And you didn’t.”

“So you were testing me?”

“I don’t know.” Against his better judgement, Jeonghan laughs, a sprinkling of a giggle, and Wonwoo smiles at him. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“You don’t know anything,” Jeonghan tells him. Wonwoo’s eyelashes glitter with dust every time he blinks.

“Maybe not,” he says, “but you still came over.”

“Because you promised to talk.”

“We are talking.” Slowly, Wonwoo’s other hand makes its way above the table top, reaches toward Jeonghan’s face. Jeonghan braces for impact, but it doesn’t come. The hand hovers beside his cheek, soft warmth glowing into Jeonghan’s skin from breaths away. Then it falls. “You’re here, anyway, so that’s what matters.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo tells him. He starts laughing when he says it, a deep chuckle, and it reverberates through the tabletop and rings in Jeonghan’s ears. “I drank too much, damn it. I don’t even know what I’m talking about.” He glares over a smile that says he doesn’t mean it. “This is what you wanted all along.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you quit journalism, then?” Though he says it, Jeonghan’s starting to feel the weight of his eyelids, and he thinks anything Wonwoo tells him now might just drift straight through both ears without sticking for a second.

“No,” Wonwoo says again. The conviction in his voice is firm enough Jeonghan could trick himself into thinking he’s sober. “I’m tired of talking.”

“I’ll head home, then.” He stands and gathers himself. Somehow, he feels like he’s about to leave something behind, but he doesn’t know what. “Thanks for having me.”

“Don’t go,” Wonwoo says. It’s not a request, but it’s not an order either. His glasses have slipped down his nose, and he looks at Jeonghan above the lenses, clear and sure and straight-on. He lays his hand palm up on the table, like he’s presenting a small gift, but it’s perfectly empty. Jeonghan doesn’t think before he reaches out to rest his own hand atop Wonwoo’s, warm and smooth. Wonwoo’s heartbeat ticks quietly into his skin.

“Why?” Jeonghan asks. The longer he spends looking down at Wonwoo, the more he feels like he shouldn’t leave.

“I like you being here.” He folds his fingers around Jeonghan’s and scoffs at himself. “Look, again. I’m talking too much.” His thumb ghosts over Jeonghan’s knuckles, back and forth. “Why is your hand so soft?”

“Lotion.” Jeonghan is stuck somewhere in the middle of escaping and being trapped, the hand in his tethering him here like iron cord. He steps closer, beside Wonwoo now but still standing, looking down at him from above. This angle makes him look so small, so fragile, and Jeonghan has to sift through words in his head. “You’re bizarre.” Wonwoo laughs.

“Can I be honest with you?”

“Aren’t you already being honest with me?”

“I’m thinking about kissing you,” Wonwoo tells him instead of answering. He tugs at Jeonghan’s wrist to pull him down a little closer, and though they remain distanced, Jeonghan thinks he’s breathing in air fresh off Wonwoo’s skin. He peers down with glinting eyes, tracing the curves of Wonwoo’s face to figure out what he’s aiming for, but he can’t get there. Maybe it’s that he’s had too much to drink, or maybe it’s that Wonwoo is too handsome.

“Then do it,” Jeonghan hears himself say. He watches Wonwoo stand, slow, release Jeonghan from his grip to place a hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. Even though he stands taller than Jeonghan now, he still seems so small, grass bending beneath a breeze. He spends a long moment searching Jeonghan’s eyes with his own, dark and burning, before he leans forward to press their lips together.

Jeonghan isn’t used to being kissed, and Wonwoo doesn’t seem used to kissing. He is gentler than Jeonghan expects him to be, a little timid and a lot slow, and his hands stay perfectly relaxed where they hold onto Jeonghan, feathery in presence and warm to the touch. There is something undeniably awkward about how the edge of the table presses into their legs beneath the yellowed fluorescent glow of Wonwoo’s kitchen light, but Jeonghan feels concrete swallowing him up to the ankles, and he doesn’t want to hazard a step out of it.

“You taste like wine,” Wonwoo mumbles at his cheek. “I don’t like wine.”

“You drank it anyway, though,” Jeonghan whispers back, hand balling into a fist around the back of Wonwoo’s shirt. Wonwoo’s chuckle sounds like sandpaper.

“I guess that’s true,” he says, and he kisses Jeonghan again.

They fumble their way into Wonwoo’s bedroom, pitch dark save for the sliver of light following them in from the kitchen. Together, they are a tangle of skeletons, far more bones than flesh, limbs bent to fit around each other in the gaping blackness. Jeonghan’s senses start to leave him slowly, until all he can tell is that he’s still wrapped up in Wonwoo to the tongue.

 

A chill draft is what wakes Jeonghan in the morning, knits a scarf of goosebumps across his shoulders and around his neck. He shrinks into the thick blanket spread over him and blinks at the ceiling until he can remember why it looks so unfamiliar, then turns his head to take a look around. Beside him, the mattress is empty, and as he leans up to survey the rest of the room, he finds it’s empty as well. Pale light filters in through curtains over the window at the bed’s opposite side, and Jeonghan uses it to spot his clothes on the floor and tug them on before he wanders into the kitchen.

Three ribbons of smoke curl toward the ceiling in the kitchen’s center. Two come from candles lit atop the table, and the third comes from a cigarette pinched between Wonwoo’s fingers. It’s burned to a stub, and he takes one final drag before snubbing it in the ash tray and exhaling a wispy cloud of gray. He turns when he hears the sound of Jeonghan’s footsteps on the tile and offers a minimal grin.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning.” Jeonghan pulls out a chair and sits across from him at the table. In the morning, everything is so different, the distance between them indescribably greater. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“You didn’t ask.” The corner of his mouth quirks, and he pushes the tray away from his hands, to the corner of the table. It smells strongly of smoke, but the two candles are working hard to cover it up, a mix between kiwi and peach. Surprisingly summery, Jeonghan thinks, considering Wonwoo. “I thought I’d try to kick it after I came here, but…” He sighs. His smile is tired. “Not quite there yet.”

“I see,” Jeonghan says, or almost says, but his tongue is caught on his teeth. Wonwoo looks so strange now, and it’s too much to chalk up to the thin veil of smoke still clinging around him. It’s all in the subtleties, so understated Jeonghan could never point out any one thing as having changed without second-guessing himself a hundred times. Between them, the flames of the candles dance a silent waltz, separated by walls of glass.

“I hate the smell of smoke,” Wonwoo adds at last. “That’s why I light the candles, even though I know they don’t work.” He breathes in the sour air and wrinkles his nose at the smell. “I like that nothing here smells like smoke.” When he blinks and looks at Jeonghan again, his gaze is painfully sharp. “Except for me, now.”

“You don’t smell like smoke,” Jeonghan tells him.

“I didn’t,” Wonwoo corrects, “but now I will.” The two flames reflect tiny impressions of themselves in his glasses. “And so will you.”

“I guess so,” Jeonghan sighs. He hates the smell of smoke, too, enough to throw his clothes in the wash and run it as soon as he gets back home, but he hasn’t got that kind of time; a glance at the clock on the wall says he needs to head back soon to open up shop, and he likely won’t even have time to shower. He inhales the taste of the room and exhales nothing. “I probably better get going,” he says.

“Alright.”

Wonwoo stands and follows him to the door, bare feet on hardwood, leans against the wall while Jeonghan tugs on his shoes. When he’s got them all laced up, Wonwoo holds the door open for him.

“Say,” he says softly, breeze from outside rustling his hair, “I know it’s late to ask this, but won’t people talk if they see you leave my house?” Jeonghan smiles at him.

“They always talk,” he says. When he does, he pats Wonwoo on the cheek, soft but deliberate, out of place against the hard stretch of his jaw. “See you.” And he walks home.

 

When Jeonghan heads back to the bar a few days later, Minghao makes him a manager’s special before he’s even sat down. He spins the glass a little while he slides it over the bar top, a bit of flair he likes to use only when he has a motive. Jeonghan eyes him over the glass’ sugared rim while he tastes the drink. Fruity again, but not the same as what he had last time. It’s hard to stop drinking.

“So,” Minghao says. Just one word. He always begins this way when he has something he wants to ask.

“Yes?” Jeonghan hums. A timid smile creeps onto Minghao’s lips.

“What’s going on between you and the new guy?”

Jeonghan could spit his drink out, and he almost does. It’s bizarre how they can be so similar. “What do you mean?”

“I heard,” Minghao starts—and that’s always how it is, because as long as people are talking, others are hearing them, and Minghao works in the town gossip center—“that you smelled like smoke the other day.” He sniffs, like the scent might still be around in traces. “I know you don’t smoke.”

“And you think Wonwoo does?”

“I heard you were leaving his house in the morning.”

“You sure heard a lot.” Minghao’s eyes catch a twinkle, a sureness that he’s caught Jeonghan now, but Jeonghan doesn’t know why he should be hiding anything anyway. He has no secrets to keep. After taking another sip, he hunches his shoulders forward and drops his voice. “Fine,” he says. “We slept together, and I spent the night there. That’s all.” Minghao raises his eyebrows. “What’s the look for?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s never nothing,” Jeonghan hums, taking another drink. “You think you get to judge me?”

“I’m not judging,” Minghao mutters unconvincingly. “But you did say you don’t know him, right?”

“I don’t.” He pauses. “Well, I do now, a little bit.” His eyes roam the ceiling. “We talked first. It’s not like I went there to get laid.”

“What did you talk about?”

Jeonghan levels his gaze at Minghao. He’s running a rag absently back and forth across the same two feet of the bar. Just as Jeonghan’s always thought, he’s too much of a busybody for a town this small. “Wonwoo’s right,” Jeonghan says. “Everyone here is so nosy.” Minghao rolls his eyes.

“Since when have _you_ not been nosy?”

“I’ve never been nosy.”

“That so?” Minghao watches him cautiously, eyes the level in his glass. “So are you together?”

“You know,” Jeonghan sighs, “I really don’t think that’s the whole town’s business.”

“The whole town isn’t asking you,” Minghao tells him.

“Maybe not, but they’re all listening.” He takes the final sip, and a bundle of lead sinks into his chest. “And I’d rather not talk about it.”

“So harsh,” Minghao scoffs. He pulls Jeonghan’s empty glass back into custody. “Want another?”

“I think that’ll be it for me, actually.” He opens his wallet and thumbs out a few bills, tucks them under the edge of the little standing menu. “See you another time, Hao.”

“Have a safe walk home,” Minghao says to his back as he walks toward the door, and then he is out in the night.

The cold has set in quickly this year, and Jeonghan finds himself shivering while he walks the paths home. Each streetlight is just far enough away from the last to leave him drowned in black for a single solid second between them, faded tendrils of light reaching for his toes and heels alike but not quite touching either. At one of these dark in-betweens, he stops and looks up to take in the stars.

Usually, he’s not so shy to share details about things that shouldn’t matter to anyone else but himself; usually, he doesn’t have many details to share. It must be because he doesn’t know the answers, doesn’t even know what answers he wants. He’s not a kid anymore, he reminds himself, and it’s useless to be so grown yet feel so stuck, like a fly lured into a drum of honey. Up above, the stars are so clear, unknowably distant in their clusters, their constellations. From this far away, they seem like they could almost touch, eat up the frigid space between and melt into one. Even if Jeonghan knows they’re lightyears apart.

He starts walking again when the feeling in his hands begins to fade. Before long, the outline of his home is rising in the darkness in front of him, silhouette traced in silver moonlight. Jeonghan treads up to the door and digs in his coat pocket for the key, hand fumbling around until his fingers brush the cool of the metal, but he doesn’t take it out. He stands there, looking at the curtained windows, fist clutching the key inside his pocket, feet not moving. A gust of wind ripples by and sets him shivering. He clenches his fist tighter and turns on his heel.

There aren’t as many streetlights at the edge of town where Wonwoo lives, so Jeonghan listens for the sound of the creek to know when he’s getting close. Around the same time he starts to hear its quiet flowing, he sees a softly glowing square of yellow outlined against the darkness that must be Wonwoo’s window. When he gets closer, he can barely make out music coming from inside, soft baritone singing that’s a little flat and distinctly detached from the instrumental track below it. Jeonghan knocks on the door after a minute of listening in silence.

Wonwoo doesn’t seem too surprised when he opens up. His eyebrows raise, but his expression remains neutral, mouth a thin line edging toward a smile. He looks like he just woke up, hair sticking in strange angles and cheeks lightly flushed, but Jeonghan guesses he likely just hasn’t left the house all day, the same way he usually seems not to. “Evening,” he says.

“Evening.” Jeonghan peeks past him, into the living room. A burning candle sits on Wonwoo’s coffee table beside an open computer and a filling ash tray. “Are you busy?”

“A little.” Wonwoo looks Jeonghan over a few times, up and down, slow as mud, then steps aside and grins. “Come in, then.”

Wonwoo walks inside and sits back down on the couch without checking to see whether Jeonghan’s following him. On quiet steps, Jeonghan comes forward and sits beside him on the couch. When he does, Wonwoo closes the laptop, and then they sit in silence. The smell of smoke is heavy but not quite stifling, kept at bay by the candle on the table, standing nobly beside the ash tray like a guard tower. Wonwoo watches Jeonghan expectantly under dark lids. He’s waiting for Jeonghan to say something, and Jeonghan knows it, but he can’t think of what to say.

“What is it?” Wonwoo asks finally.

“What’s what?” Jeonghan asks. Wonwoo groans and tilts his chin. Somehow, his eyes are so sharp.

“You came for something,” he says, certain. “So what is it?”

Jeonghan pulls his jacket off and flops against the back of the couch. While he balls it up in his lap, he thinks about what he wants to say, chews his lower lip to red. He doesn’t know Wonwoo, he reminds himself. Barely knows him. “I want to talk,” he says.

“We’ve already talked,” Wonwoo tells him, but his resolve fizzles as soon as he’s said it. He pauses. “About what?”

“About you.” Jeonghan hears Wonwoo sigh beside him. “Don’t be like that. I’m serious.” He turns to face Wonwoo, elbow jammed up against the wall, and curls his knees up in front of his chest. Now he feels like a child, though when Wonwoo glances back at him, he still looks like one. “It doesn’t have to be about whatever you did before.”

Wonwoo narrows his eyes. “What about, then?”

“Whatever you do now,” Jeonghan says. “You barely ever leave your house. I’ve touched your dick, but I don’t even know what you do all day.” Wonwoo’s whole face scrunches up beautifully when he laughs, like tissue paper stuffed in the periphery of a gift bag. His laughter is almost silent, only the empty quaking of lungs, but he throws his head back with it, and his entire body moves along.

“That bothers you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jeonghan huffs, kicking at his leg. “I cut hair. You know that. So just tell me what you do.”

Wonwoo leans his head against the wall and blows a breath out through his nose. “Write,” he says, nodding toward the closed computer on the coffee table. “I stay in and write.”

“What do you write?”

“I’m writing a book.” Jeonghan’s ears prick up with interest, and he leans forward, eyes aglow.

“About what?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I’m not asking for the world.” Jeonghan rolls his eyes and bumps his fist into Wonwoo’s arm. “Just tell me what it’s about.” Wonwoo sighs and shuts his eyes. When he leans back, he looks like a marble statue.

“I don’t know yet,” he admits. “I can’t decide.” He pats out a frustrated rhythm on his leg, and Jeonghan is overcome with an urge to kiss him. Better not to act on that, he guesses. “I’ve scrapped and rewritten the opening twenty times, but I never like it.” Jeonghan hums, and Wonwoo cracks one eye open. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” Jeonghan says. “I just like knowing.” Wonwoo shakes his head and shuts his eye again.

“You’re a bizarre man.”

“Live here as long as I have and try not to be.” A stiffness sets into his spine, and he stretches his arms forward against it. “Ah, by the way, Minghao asked me about you today.”

“What did he ask?”

“Why I was leaving your house the other morning.”

Wonwoo chuckles, weak, and opens his eyes again. They bore into Jeonghan, hard and insistent. “That’s hardly about me.” He holds onto his next breath just a moment too long. “What did you tell him?”

“That we slept together.” Wonwoo coughs.

“How straightforward of you.” Jeonghan shrugs.

“I told you I love to answer questions.”

“Answer this one, then.” Wonwoo pivots on the sofa and folds his legs up so his knees press right against Jeonghan’s, then leans forward to close their distance. “Is asking me what I do the only reason you came by?” Jeonghan does love answering questions, but only when they’re easy. He shrinks back an inch.

“I don’t know.” Somehow, Wonwoo is impossible to look at. He finds himself turning to trace his eyes over the spines of books whose titles are too small to read. “I was going home—I was home—but then I just… came here.” He puffs out a breath. Wonwoo really does have so many books. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

A palm is against Jeonghan’s cheek without warning, cool but comforting, warm but not. With a gentle push, it turns his head until his chin is squared up to Wonwoo, and Jeonghan can see the full length of his arm stretching between them, copper wire bent at the elbow. There is electricity tingling along his jaw.

“I like your honesty,” Wonwoo tells him.

“That so?” Jeonghan asks. Wonwoo nods.

“Would it be too much to say I’m thinking about kissing you again?”

“Always with the thinking.” Jeonghan slides his legs away and curls his hand around the back of Wonwoo’s neck, pulls him closer, closer, closer, until their lips are pressed together. The smoke is heavy on Wonwoo’s tongue, but Jeonghan kisses him around it, searches for the places where it’s not quite as strong. Wonwoo leans back and grins at him.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You taste like cigarettes,” Jeonghan says. Wonwoo laughs.

“Maybe next time you shouldn’t kiss me right after I smoke one.”

“Maybe so.”

After another second of waiting, Jeonghan kisses him again. With another breath of air between them, it’s not so bad. Wonwoo slides his arms around Jeonghan’s waist, hard and bony, and Jeonghan thinks he can feel himself melting into them. They work their way back again to Wonwoo’s bedroom, slow steps on hardwood under fading lights. When Wonwoo presses his lips to Jeonghan’s neck, Jeonghan is distinctly aware of a flame still dancing somewhere in the house, still filled with the scent of a candle not yet finished burning.

 

This time, Jeonghan wakes to the smell of smoke, faint but distinct, and another cold draft, much stronger than the last. He turns his head to find Wonwoo sitting on the other half of the bed still, upright and bare-chested, smoking a cigarette while he looks out the open window. Jeonghan guesses there’s something considerate in the way he blows all the smoke outside and taps the ashes onto the grass, but he still shivers against the chill. Wonwoo turns to look at him when he feels the movement.

“Morning,” he says. “You always sleep this late?”

“Today’s my day off,” Jeonghan excuses, tugging the duvet up over his shoulders. He doesn’t know how Wonwoo can be sitting like that when it’s so cold. “Isn’t it a bad idea to smoke in bed?”

“Maybe.” He turns to breathe outside again, a tiny gray cloud that materializes and drips over the sill. “Would you pass me the ash tray on that end table?”

“No way. It’s freezing.” Wonwoo raises his eyebrows.

“Should I put this out on your arm, then?”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Jeonghan scoffs, and Wonwoo closes his eyes and groans, barely audible.

“I wouldn’t,” he admits, “but I fully could, so please.”

Reluctantly, Jeonghan slips his arm out and grabs blindly until his fingers wrap around what feels like an ash tray and tosses it over himself to land on the blankets between them. Wonwoo grabs it, rests it on the windowsill, snubs the last of his butt into the center of the empty bowl, and shuts the window. There is no candle now to assuage the scent, so Jeonghan buries his nose in the blanket and watches Wonwoo take a few cleaner breaths and lie back down.

“Do you want to know why I came here?” Wonwoo asks, propping himself up on one elbow. He doesn’t have his glasses on, but neither does he squint to look Jeonghan in the eyes. They must be close enough now that everything is clear.

“Are you really going to tell me?” Jeonghan watches his face carefully. “What’s the catch this time?”

“No catch.” The way his cheek squishes against his hand makes him look a little bit like a baby. “You looked so harmless when you were asleep, and then I just started thinking, and now I’m in the mood to talk about it.” Jeonghan doesn’t understand the steps he took in his brain to get here, and he doesn’t want to think about the way it makes him feel knowing Wonwoo looked at him while he was sleeping. “Do you want to hear it?”

“I’ve only been asking,” Jeonghan says, and he turns on his side to face Wonwoo, exposing the top of one shoulder to the air. Gradually, the room is warming.

“Alright.” Wonwoo cracks the knuckles on his idle hand one by one with his thumb and lays it against the sheets. “Have you ever heard of a company called Celcor?”

“I don’t think so,” Jeonghan says, chewing his lip, “but the name rings a bell, I think.”

“Energy supplier,” Wonwoo tells him. “More in big cities than small towns like this. They didn’t have many operations on this side of the country.”

“Right.”

“Pretty big name,” Wonwoo continues, “but, you know. Not in the past year.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’ve ceased all operations. Declared bankruptcy.” He lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers like magic. “Dissolved.” Jeonghan opens his mouth to ask a question, but Wonwoo beats him to it. “Why do you think that is?”

“I guess you’re going to tell me.” Wonwoo smiles, without much mirth.

“Fraud,” he says. “Massive fraud. Fudged profits, offshore accounts, trashed records, cooked books. An auditor’s worst nightmare. Everything you can imagine a business could do wrong, they were doing wrong.”

“Jesus,” Jeonghan whistles, though it’s not like he knows much about finance beyond what it takes him to stay afloat. “How did they get found out?”

“How do you think?” Wonwoo twirls his finger into the center of a little cyclone of blanket. “An employee who thought something fishy was going on gave an anonymous tip, and that started an investigation.” He pauses long enough to give Jeonghan time to think through it. “Who do you guess that employee called?”

“You?” Jeonghan ventures.

“Close.” Wonwoo lifts his finger, but the cyclone stays perfectly still without him. “My boss. And he assigned me to it.” He breathes out, slow, like he’s reminiscing, but his face lacks any fondness. “I worked for three years and seven months on that story. I never thought I would know so much about business.”

“So you got them shut down? That’s… incredible.” Jeonghan wrinkles his forehead. “But shouldn’t I have heard something about it? It sounds so big.” Admittedly, he doesn’t read the paper often.

“The story wasn’t run here,” Wonwoo tells him. “I checked. That’s why I came.” Jeonghan’s frown deepens.

“Not sure I’m following.”

“How many employees do you think they had?” His smile is all but gone. “I’ll tell you. Six thousand.” He smooths out his little vortex only to stir up another. “And maybe a hundred of those max were the guys at the top, pulling the strings. Which means everyone else was just a regular person doing work they thought was honest. Like you and me.” He falls on his back and flicks his eyes to the ceiling. “But they all lost their jobs equally.”

“You’re not thinking,” Jeonghan breathes, “you did the wrong thing, right?” Wonwoo looks at him again, and his eyes gain a bit of vitality.

“Of course not. I know I did the right thing.” He sighs. “And it’s not my fault. I know. But thinking about all those innocent people suddenly being out of work, having no income, meanwhile everyone’s telling me what a great job I did, what a good thing… It’s hard to like that.”

Jeonghan’s body aches to say something, but his lips won’t do it. His brain can’t think of anything. What is there to say when Wonwoo already knows he doesn’t want to hear it? Instead, he devotes his attention to tracing the shadows cast over most of Wonwoo’s face. He’s backlit right now by the white light outside the window, and it’s difficult to look at him, but Jeonghan keeps looking anyway.

“I thought I’d come somewhere it didn’t matter and start a new life and be my own new person, and I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore,” Wonwoo continues, “but I didn’t count on everyone being so goddamn nosy.” He exhales. “I was going to quit smoking, write my book…”

“You could have just lied,” Jeonghan says after a moment of thought. “It’s not like I would have known. Or anyone else. You could’ve just made something up.”

Wonwoo turns back to Jeonghan and props himself up on his elbow again. “I know,” he says, “and I thought about it. But I’ll be honest again.” His free hand finds Jeonghan’s cheek and cups it, quiet and gentle. It feels so comfortable there. “I like you. So I wanted to tell you the truth this time.” A smile dances in his eyes. “How’s that for pillow talk?”

Jeonghan’s cheeks don’t burn, but a casual warmth melts into his whole body, effervesces in every cell of his skin. His gut is telling him to kiss Wonwoo, so he reaches out with his arms, under the blankets, and threads them around Wonwoo’s back, snakes closer and takes his lips. Their chests press flush against one another, Wonwoo’s so cold yet abominably warm, and Wonwoo’s bony knees knock into Jeonghan’s before their legs become a tangled mess together. He tastes somewhere in the middle of smoke and air, smog and mist, water and sand. Jeonghan is starting to think the smell of smoke isn’t so terrible.

When they part again, Wonwoo watches him. His eyes are sharp, look like they’ll catch anything, but Jeonghan can’t figure out just what he’s aiming for. The crook of his elbow bends around Jeonghan’s neck, and his fingers sift through the short hairs at the back of Jeonghan’s head absently, the same way a dealer shuffles the deck again and again while he waits for players. Jeonghan doesn’t want to think he feels loved, but he wants to think he feels something. Minghao has never eyed him this way from over the bar.

“What are we doing?” he asks.

It’s more ambiguous than he means, but every answer is the one he’s after. Wonwoo’s lips curl, just a little, all the way at the corners. Jeonghan can almost feel it move something inside him, palms against an open door, not quite forceful enough to open it. Wonwoo breathes out, and it is neither smoke nor air.

“We’re talking,” he says.

One hand trails away from Jeonghan’s hair to trace a fingertip down his spine, numb him with a chill, and the look on Wonwoo’s face says talking does not mean talking. He kisses Jeonghan again, sweetly, like butter melting in a skillet and flower petals falling to the dirt. Maybe the moon is not as unspectacular as he once thought, or maybe the stars were just closer together all along. A candle flame burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere outside, a bird is chirping its midmorning tune, and Jeonghan thinks that simple isn’t always boring. Somewhere inside, he’s sure Wonwoo will come up with a story to tell. Somewhere in between, he breathes in the scent of sheets and leans in to kiss Wonwoo one more time.

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello!!! thank you so much for reading!! i had a pretty nice time writing this over the past 2 weeks, and i hope you had a nice time reading it!! there was a lot that i wanted to convey in here and i'm not sure if i got it all done as well as i wanted but you know... so rarely do things turn out exactly as we hope. even despite its shortcomings, i hope you can still find yourself able to enjoy it. i pan on doing a lot of writing this year (in these next few months especially) and i hope i'll make a lot of improvements that you as the reader can sense as well! thank you so much again for reading, and as always, all feedback is greatly appreciated!! thank you and see you!!


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